


When did you become a monster?

by Baryshnikov



Series: Where Monsters lie [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dark Harry Potter, M/M, Memory Loss, POV Second Person, Sensual horror, Stream of Consciousness, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-19 07:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16529858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: You don't remember what you have done.





	When did you become a monster?

You don’t remember why the others won’t talk to you. Apparently, it was something you said. You don’t remember what you said. You didn’t think you’d talked to them in ages but the way they look at you suggests differently. There is anger in their glares and revulsion in their stares, they can see something you yourself cannot and however much you ask, they never tell, never let you see what they see. You think nothing of it, friends are temporary, they will come and go. That thought startles you, when did you start to think like that? When did you start to see people as commodities to adorn yourself with? They are not your words. They are his and they tarnish your mouth, but they feel so good to say, so you do not chastise yourself. He is just a spectre that likes to whisper comforts in your ear when the world is being distorted by those demons who wear human skin. He says that you are not like them. You are Harry Potter. You are the greatest wizard to ever be. You smile when he says that for you know it is not true, but you cannot help but wonder, what if it was. 

You don’t remember why you’re here. Standing in the middle of the corridor after dark. It is not something you used to do and yet, here you are. Standing in front of a window looking out at the immense darkness that fills the world. Once you were scared of the dark, now you embrace it. There is something sacred about the endless blackness, the unending shadows that neither time nor magic can deform. Something out in the void calls your name. You recognise his voice, it is your spectre. The essence of a being, whose face is a blank canvas, but whose voice is the honied warmth that heats the darkness until it melts away. He is the one you turn to when you do not remember. He will help you fill in the gaps, the infinite spaces that imbue your mind. Tom that is his name, your spectre Tom with his beautiful words and ghostly presence. You can feel him standing beside you, although you know he isn’t really there. Tom isn’t really anywhere. He is the darkness and the shadows and all the wonders your mind can conjure. Tom is the one who tells you not to worry, the worry who reminds you who you are and what that means. You repeat it to yourself quietly. Your name is Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the greatest wizard to ever be. Your name is Harry Potter and you are standing in the corridor after dark. 

You don’t remember why there is blood on your hands, you don’t know how it got there. It drips from your fingers, pooling on the floor, running down the wood and disappearing into the cracks. There is blood on your hands, but you don’t remember cutting yourself. You cannot see your wand or anything else that could have caused such red to flow. It is too dark, and all the world seems to be steeped in that red, it is seeping from the floor and the walls and dropping with slow patters from the ceiling. You look up but there is nothing and you wonder where the noise comes from. Being lost in all this red reminds you of your hands digging into flesh, weird moans accompanying the feeling echo around your head, although you are sure you are alone. There is a slow euphoria gliding up your spine at the thought of what you might have done. Fingers steeped in red, hands and nails drenched in hot wet red. You remember it so vividly, but only for a second, the image of a broken body, its heart in your hand, red oozing between your fingers and dribbling down your arm. You can see the red gullies painting pretty lines down your arms. Then it is gone, and you are alone in a silent room with nothing but a hammering heart and Tom’s hands stroking your shoulders. He speaks to you in that special way, the way made only for divinities. It is so soft and slow in your ear, pulling you towards his world. You feel his hands holding you, telling you a little blood is good for the soul, that a little blood proves you are not a coward. He doesn’t tell you what you did, but you no longer care to ask. Not when he suggests such wonderful things, such special things. Your name is Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the greatest wizard to ever be. Your name is Harry Potter and you have blood on your hands.

You don’t remember why the person smiling in the mirror is someone you don’t recognise. Someone dark and dangerous, someone with meat stuck between their teeth. You don’t remember eating but your teeth are stained red. Your stomach twists and a part of you knows what you have done. Your stomach twists again, tearing and wrenching and contorting until you’re crying out, but you can’t bear to vomit. That would make all this real. That would make you a monster. So, you sit on the floor, leaning against the tiles trying to stop the world spinning. Your cheek against the cold white tiles does not disperse the fear that there is a monster inside you. A monster that runs its fingers through other people’s bodies, a monster that craves horrific things, a monster that is always hungry. Just sitting here, you can feel the congealed tissue clogging your throat, making you choke on the vague memories of what you have done. You know it is disgusting but you can’t help it, can’t help but feel a little proud of what you’re capable of. You know Tom is proud. You can half-see his indistinct features smiling as you sink your teeth into something soft and warm, it gives easily, and you swallow, mouthful after mouthful after mouthful. Tom’s smile broadens. He is so pleased. He says you make a lovely monster and you have to agree.  
You cannot help it as the contents of your stomach slops into the basin. You do not look, you don’t want to know if it was all real, if you really did what you think you did. Instead, you splash the water on your face and look into the mirror. What you see scares you. A boy with your hair and your mouth is staring back at you, but you do not recognise this boy. He is not you. You do not have blood stained lips, you do not have such deep shadows under your eyes, and your eyes are not so dark, are they? You feel as though you are falling into those eyes, falling and falling and falling, until you are lost to the world. It hits you harder than it should that they are his eyes watching you. They are his eyes and his smile and his shadows, that gives you some comfort, and you stare fascinated at the creature who stares back at you. Both your hearts are thudding, both of you are captivated by what you see. You wish he was really here, that he would come to you, he could tell you what is real. You wish that he would run his fingers across your lips and wipe away the horrors you are scared you are capable of. But Tom is not here, he has abandoned you. Alone, you run your knuckles across your lips, the streaks of red stand out strong against your skin as if an artist had rubbed their brushes clean on your knuckles. You swallow the bile that rises in your throat. You do not remember, but you think you know what you have done. You should be horrified, and you are, but if Tom is proud, then so are you. If Tom is pleased, then so are you. If Tom delights in your depravity, then so do you. If Tom wanted you to do it all again, then you would, because Tom knows, he knows what you really want and what you really are. Your name is Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the greatest wizard to ever be. Your name is Harry Potter and there is flesh in your mouth.

You don’t remember why your bones ache and your every muscle burns, but you love it. Love that his fingerprints are forever etched into your skin, the white marks that you don’t remember but suddenly appear. You would call it magic if you didn’t know better, but you do. This is no magic, this is a human, a human who holds you too tightly, a human who is not afraid of the consequences of their actions, a human that is not afraid. Perhaps a human is too derisory. Tom is not a human, not a mere mortal. Tom is an angel and a deity and an idol. Tom is the past and the present and the future. He is your teacher and your mentor and something so much more.  
With a reverence, you trace the half-moons in your thighs and briefly, you see his smile between your legs. It is a reward to see his face, pale and holy in the world’s endless dark. It is sacred to feel his red tongue on your thighs, teeth white against your skin, biting with too much vivacity, too much violence for you to really feel safe and yet you do. You never dreamt of the sublime before Tom infected your world with the divine. Now your heart is pounding whenever you open your eyes, whenever your fingers reach for his hair, whenever your mouth begs him to stop. He smiles that hallowed smile and looks up with those innocent eyes. You can see it now, behind the veil of virtue there is a hunger. He is starving for you and you give in and let him have taste; he is far too sacrosanct to resist.  
People ask about the bruises at your neck, you say you don’t remember, although you still feel his body pressed against yours, his fingers wrapped around your neck, dragging you into the dark. You can still feel his teeth against your jaw and his lips so cold against your own. You don’t know why you let him, other than he feels so good on your skin. You tell yourself that it doesn’t matter, he’s not real, so what does it matter what you let him do to you. You are lying to yourself and you know it. You love what he does to you, and what he says to you. Those sugar stained words his mouth spills so easily, not that you’ll complain; you have come to love the taste of lies on his tongue. You don’t remember doing the things he asks of you, but his tongue tells you that you’ve done them, and he is so pleased. You live for his cold hands and clever words, his praises and panegyrizes. You believe every word his red tongue speaks. Your name is Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the greatest wizard to ever be. Your name is Harry Potter and you have fallen in love with the dark. 

You do remember why Tom is smiling at you. You do remember the heaviness of the wand in your hand, you do remember those fateful words leaving your lips. They should have been bitter on your tongue, so painful and obscene, but they weren’t. Those words made you free, free from the tireless webs you have been bound in, free from the judgemental glares and revulsive stares, at least that’s what Tom says. With his smile, you have been blessed, with his hands, you have been consecrated and now, with his words, you have been made holy. Your name is Harry Potter. Harry Potter, the greatest wizard to ever be. Your name is Harry Potter and you are a monster.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't my best, but I hope it isn't too bad.


End file.
